


the emerald isle

by ní fios cé a chum (RainRiversol)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Artistic License Taken, Drabbles, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Not Completely Historically Accurate, Some Humor, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainRiversol/pseuds/n%C3%AD%20fios%20c%C3%A9%20a%20chum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of non-linear drabbles focusing on Ireland throughout history. Currently featuring: Denmark really had it coming...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's nothing like a vodka boy, the vodka is the one

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, and I make no profit from this story. It is for enjoyment purposes only.  
> Summary: A series of non-linear drabbles focusing on Ireland throughout history.  
> Overall Series Note/Disclaimer: Although this story takes much of its inspiration from history and interesting facts that spark my imagination, it is not meant to represent the actual country or its history. It is not meant to cause offense to anybody.  
> {{ p.s. I write (and publish here) to become better at writing in general. Though every favorite or follow or kudo is sincerely appreciated (cookies for you all!) reviews/constructive criticism are even better! Thank you very much. }}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ireland and Russia meet for the first time.

_**there’s nothing like a vodka boy, the vodka is the one** _

_**(part i?)** _

           The party is in full swing by the time they arrive on foot. Ah, well, Ireland thinks. Francis would probably only call it ‘fashionably late.’ She’d rather have arrived ‘fashionably never,’ to be honest. But England wants to go, to improve diplomatic relations or whatever (though how he intends to do that with his cooking Ireland will never understand), and he wants to introduce her to everybody (according to him, at any rate). Ireland just thinks he wants to show her off. And show her who’s in charge. Whatever, she thinks. She’s sure to screw up in England’s eyes no matter what she does.

            They get off to a swimming start when France jumps out and ‘attacks’ them. (France maintains he was only trying to greet them, starting with giving Ireland a kiss, but the siblings, united for three seconds in order to punch him, manage to leave twin bruises on his face.) They escape inside, where England straightens his clothing out, realizes that Ireland’s collapsed onto a chair with her muddy shoes propped up on a very expensive antique table, and promptly has a conniption. Cut to five minutes later, Ireland’s leaning against a wall sullenly, looking presentable once more, as England hastily (and guiltily) shoves the remains of the table behind a potted plant.

            He gets to his feet. The siblings eye each other warily for a minute before England breaks the silence. “Come along, then. There’s a lot of nations to meet.”

            The next ten minutes are a bit of a blur for Ireland, as she is introduced (shown off, she thinks resentfully again) to what she feel like must be the whole world (perhaps it is). But finally, there’s a break in the endless line, and she and England join a smaller group consisting of France, Spain, and…well, she doesn’t recognize anyone else. No, wait. That’s Prussia. His shock of almost white hair and reddish eyes make him hard to forget. A tall blond nation, with a serious look in his blue eyes (far too serious for one so young, she thinks), stands next to him. While England makes chit-chat with the other nations, Prussia notices her interest in the blond man. He grins, throwing an arm around the blond. “This here’s my little Brüder Ludwig,” he informs her excitedly. “Also known as Germany.” There is an expectant pause while he looks at her, waiting for a reaction. Ireland doesn’t understand (or really care, frankly), and she can only give a blank expression in return.

            Prussia huffs in exasperation, turning back to the other nations. England notices, and begins making apologies for her lack of knowledge. Ireland quickly loses interest and tunes him out for the next few minutes. She uses the time to look for other nations she might recognize. Over in the corner, she spots Norway and Denmark. Her eyes narrow, and she has half a mind to go over there and get some well-earned vengeance on the two Vikings for all of the coastal raids and warfare they’d inflicted upon her in the past. Her slightly homicidal train of thought is interrupted by the conversation turning back to her.

            “Who is she, anyway?” Prussia asks, looking over at her again. She meets his gaze impassively, noting the question is addressed to her brother instead of her.

            England coughs. “This is my sister, Ireland. I thought she might like to meet you all,” he adds. “I thought it might do her good to be around some civilizing influence: she used to live in Ireland – the land, I mean – before I brought her to my house, and it seems to be helping a bit with lessening the barbarian influence.” There is a polite laugh at that, from several of the nations, and Ireland feels her hackles rise. _So it’s a fight ye want, boyos, is that it? Well, lads, I play rough and dirty. Let’s see how long ye last._

            The one with glasses and an errant hair curl bows. “A pleasure to meet you, Ireland. Enjoy your time in civilization,” he says politely, though not without a touch of condescension.

            England laughs. “Yes. I think she shall.”

            Ireland turns to her brother. “Oh? Is that so, Arthur?” she asks with deceptive politeness. She looks at the rest of the nations. “True, my brother claims that he wants to show the ‘uncultured barbarian’ what ‘true civilization’ looks like.” The nations’ eyes shift nervously away. She supposes her tone’s a bit deprecating, but she plows on anyway. “However, he’s neglectin’ to mention that without me, himself and none of ye would be here lecturin’ me on what civilization looks like, ‘cause it wouldn’t exist.” She smiles at them then, and it is the hunter’s smile, of the thrill of the chase and the catching of the prey. “Seein’ as how I was the one to bring it back to Europe, I mean. Without me, there’d be no you.” She turns back to her brother, still smiling. “And if I’d left ye to die on your own, there’d be no you either. Wouldn’t that make my life a hell of a lot simpler?”

England turns back to the assembled nations, wincing only slightly. Beside him, Ireland’s green eyes glimmer triumphantly, only for the sparks to be extinguished in the next few seconds at Arthur’s words.

            “Her human name is Kathleen Kirkland,” Arthur continues his earlier introduction as if she has said nothing at all, and she can see smirking victory in his eyes. It reminds her of their pirate days, but that memory is a small ding amongst the clanging clamor in her brain. He knows, dammit. He knows that’s not her name, never been her name. She’s torn between wanting to kill him and realization that she can’t do anything to him. She’s powerless, and she hates that.

            France reaches over and touches her arm lightly, comfortingly, before drawing England’s attention away with a well-aimed insult. The rest of the countries follow to watch the ensuing argument, leaving her alone and out of the spotlight. She’s grateful, but still seething inside.

            A sudden prickling at the back of her neck causes her to look up, straight into violet eyes.

            Though she’ll never admit it (her brothers would tease her endlessly if they knew, and she thanks God that Arthur is sufficiently distracted elsewhere), she lets out a little shriek and jumps back a little bit. “Jaysus! The hell are ye doin’?”

            He blinks. “Standing.”  The pale-haired nation had apparently remained behind when the others had left…and then stood right behind her, without moving or speaking….yeah, not strange at all. What was his name…Russia, right? In her own tongue, that would be… _an Rúis_. She repeats the word in her head, feeling rebellious. England might control what language she spoke in but he’d never control her thoughts.

            The nation’s white scarf and long, heavy coat seem overkill for the pleasant night. True, it’s autumn, but it’s not that cold yet. Perhaps his country was colder? Ireland feels a sudden spurt of longing for snow, and then another wave of longing to see her own country again, though snow never lasts long there.

            Russia continues to watch her with great interest for a bit, without moving at all. Feeling not a little bit uncomfortable, she shakes her head finally and demands, “Well, could ye maybe stop?”

            He tilts his head curiously. “Why?”

            “ ’Cause – ‘cause it’s creepin’ me out.”

            He does not stop – to her great chagrin – but does shift a bit, so now he looks less like a statue or dead man. She finds herself still bothered by it though, and so she glances around, locates the alcohol, and makes her escape, muttering excuses about “needin’ somethin’ t’drink.”

            He shows up again just after she’s been forbidden by Arthur to partake in any of said alcohol, when she’s cursing him under her breath in every language she knows – including the Gaelic, and she hopes he hears her and makes a scene – and offers her a glass of something.

            She looks suspiciously at it and asks if it’s poison.

            Russia takes her seriously and answers no. (which is nice. Her brothers and Francis would have laughed.)

            She shrugs, takes it, and knocks the whole thing back. He looks amused.

            “Don’t you want to know what it is first?”

            “Was it alcohol?”

            “ _Da_.”

            “Then I don’t care.” She looks at the empty glass for a minute, realizes that it was probably his, and feels slightly guilty. (but only slightly. She really wants to be drunk right now. Or home. But since she can’t go home, she’ll settle for drunk.) She hands it back. “Sorry for drinkin’ your…drink. Whatever it was.”

            “Vodka,” he informs her, taking it back. “It means ‘little water’ in my language.”

            She snickers at that. “A man after my own heart.”

            He beams, though a little uncertainly. She takes pity on him. “It means ye like alcohol.” She frowns. “Ye do like alcohol, yeah?”

            “Ah. _Da_. Vodka. I do like vodka.”

            They stand for a minute in companionable silence, watching the other guests mingle. Ireland sees Arthur attempting to strangle Francis – all well and good over there – and a few other nations she knows – over there, Spain chatting enthusiastically with a grumpy looking nation who looks vaguely familiar, and there, the North American brothers slightly separated from the rest of the European nations. She wonders what they are doing here.

            She realizes that Russia has just asked her a question, and feeling slightly embarrassed, asks him to repeat it again. When he does, she blinks a few times, but politely declines his offer to become one with him. Russia only nods and smiles, shrugging it off with, “All will become one eventually.” Though Ireland finds this a bit worrying, she dismisses her concerns (for now) and they lapse back into silence. She returns to watching the other nations.

            “Excuse me, miss Kirkland?” The Russian accented voice comes from just behind her ear, and she whirls around.

            “It’s not Kirkland,” she blurts out before she can stop herself. She catches herself, glancing around to see if England had suddenly appeared when she wasn’t looking to hear her errant words. He hadn’t.

            One pale eyebrow raises in interest. “Really?”

            She falters. “I mean….”

            Russia rocks back on his heels, face impassive. “What is it, then?”

            Ireland covers her mouth. “I’m not supposed to say,” she grudgingly confesses, hating herself for saying the words even after they leave her mouth.

            He smiles. “I will not tell.”

            She hesitates.

            His smile grows wider. “Promise.”

            God help her, she’s going to do it. She needs to tell someone, if only to soothe her wounded pride (and to piss off Arthur, which is always a bonus, no matter how dangerous it can end up).

            She leans in closer, and the tall nation bends down so she can reach his ear. Strands of his pale hair tickle her nose and she resists the urge to sneeze. She opens her mouth to whisper, “Kathleen – ” only to be interrupted by a call from across the room.

            “Kathleen! We’re leaving!” England, coat in hand, storms across the room to her. Surprised, she falls back from Russia, and the nation straightens up to his full height once more, looking disappointed.

            England nearly crashes into Russia and he bounces back, looking a bit frightened as the violet-eyed nation smiled down at him. Ireland will freely admit she smirked at her younger brother’s clear fear of Russia. England stammers, “S-so s-sorry about that, Russia, old chap, didn’t see you there…”

            Russia lets the smaller nation sweat for a minute (and Ireland enjoyed those sixty seconds immensely) before graciously accepting his apology. Looking relieved, England turns to Ireland. “Right, then. We’re off.”

            “So soon?” she asks, wondering if she should bother to fake being disappointed before realizing that she actually is disappointed. This is the first time in a long while she’s had extended contact with nations who aren’t her family, Spain, France, America, or Canada, and she finds that she’s been…if not reveling in her interaction with Russia, at least she’s appreciative of it (and of the fact that she’s not hiding in a corner somewhere, counting the seconds until the party’s over). “I’m wanting to stay. You can go, if ye like.”

            England scowls. “Yes, well. The frog’s being a pain, as usual, so I’d rather not stay. And…” His eyes flick over to Russia, who’s observing their interaction with great interest, and he clears his throat. “And, I believe it’s past curfew for you, so you need to come with me.”

            Ireland blinks at him, not sure if she heard him correctly. Then, fury blossoms in her chest. “Excuse me?!? Since when the hell do I have a curfew? Ye’re my little brother, not my mother.”

            England – Arthur – remains calm. “However, you are under my control, and I say you have a curfew, so you must return home with me. Unless, of course, you’d like me to just flat out order you to come home,” an edge creeping into his voice.

            Ireland – Kathleen – God, she doesn’t even know anymore – stares at him, mouth hanging open. Behind Arthur, she can see nations gathering – their kind was always up for a good fight – eyes alight with interest. Next to her, Russia remains silent but watchful. Across the room, she sees Francis, too far away to do anything to help. His eyes meet hers in silent sadness. Despite their long friendship, he has his own people and duties to take care of. He can’t go to war over her, even if he had to means to do so. She was on her own.

            Her mouth snaps shut, and she draws herself up, standing tall. “The last person,” she tells him, “to dare command me like that was my mother. And ye killed her, Sasana. _Dúnmharfóir_!” The accusation causes as gasp to run around the room, but Kathleen is heedless of the shock, fleeing from the room to head home. All she wants now is to curl up in her own room – no, all she wants is comfort from her younger brother Alistair – no. What she truly wants is to go home.

            She puts the violet-eyed nation out of her mind for a long while after that.


	2. anyone going faster than you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driving with France and Ireland: which is more traumatic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, and I make no profit from this story. It is for enjoyment purposes only.  
> Summary: A series of non-linear drabbles focusing on Ireland throughout history.  
> Overall Series Note/Disclaimer: Although this story takes much of its inspiration from history and interesting facts that spark my imagination, it is not meant to represent the actual countries, people, or their history. It is not meant to cause offense to anybody.  
> {{ p.s. I write (and publish here) to become better at writing in general. Though every favorite/follow/kudo is sincerely appreciated (cookies for you all!) reviews/constructive criticism are even better! Thank you very much. }}

anyone going faster than you

“Right.” Ireland tosses the keys up and down, purses her lips, and eyes the car. “Let’s go.” She starts to move decisively towards the car.

France pales. “ _Mon Dieu_. You’re not driving, are you?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve got the keys.” Ireland shoots him a puzzled look, wondering why this is an issue.

“Well, why don’t I drive today?” France suggests, sidling closer and eyeing the keys that Ireland holds.

“What? Why?” Ireland jams the key into the keyhole, frowning when it doesn’t fit right away. Behind her, France mutters something that sounds vaguely offensive, but since it’s France, she pays him no heed. She pulls the key out of the keyhole to examine it, cursing under her breath. “Damn keys. Why do they have to all look the same?”

There is movement in the corner of her eye, and France is suddenly leaning up against the car. She doesn’t pay any attention to him; all of her focus is on thoroughly cursing her keys, the car, and the human who invented purses (clearly he was a depraved maniac who enjoyed other people’s pain, especially when they don’t have the right keys and they can’t find the correct ones in their purse because everything has fallen to the bottom of the purse in a tangled mess that makes it impossible to locate anything and she hopes that human burns in the flames of hell).

“Well…” France watches as Ireland stomps viciously on the purse. “No offense, _ma chérie_ , but you are a maniac on the roads.”

Ireland snorts. “And ye’re not?” She bends down to retrieve the mangled purse, shaking it in the hopes of having the correct key magically fall out. No such luck. “Is this about the Ring of Kerry trip I took you on?”

“I was in danger of my life for every second of the trip!” France protests. “And it was a long trip!”

Ireland dismisses this with a wave of her hand (and narrowly misses hitting France in the face with her purse. He artfully dodges, skill born of long practice of dodging one or another of Ireland and her siblings). “It wasn’t that long. Stop bein’ such a baby.”

“It was seven hours of constant looming death! From both you and your people ! Maniacs, I tell you!”

“Adventure’s good for the soul, Francis; ever heard of that? And we had a good time, didn’t we?”

“You tried to drive us off a cliff! On a road no wider than I am!”

“Ye’re exaggeratin’. It was as wide as the both of us together.”

“THAT’S NOT ANY BETTER!”

“Besides, you said you wanted to go faster.”

“ _Non_ , I distinctly remember saying, ‘DON’T GO FASTER, YOU’LL KILL US BOTH!’ And then you laughed like a crazy person and _sped up_.”

Ireland shrugs. “Well, that’s not how I remember it.” Her eyes light up in triumph, as she pulls the correct key out of her jacket pocket. “Hah!” She tosses the purse aside and tries to fit the key in the lock.

France blocks her. “Give me the key, Kathleen.”

Ireland purses her lips, more in annoyance than actual anger. “Move, Francis.”

He shakes his head desperately. “ _Non_. I will not repeat that experience ever again. Hand the key over.”

Ireland glares. “Don’t make me move ye, Francis.”

France stubbornly refuses to budge, and Ireland tries to shove him out of the way. He resists, and soon the two are locked into a shoving war. France continuously attempts to grab the key while Ireland fends him off; she tries to shove him out of her way while he manages to hold his ground.

Without pausing in their struggle, France says, “I’ll give you two bottles of alcohol, your choice, and the keys to Angleterre’s study if you give me the keys and let me drive.”

“I want access to his notes of the World Meetings, too,” Ireland says immediately.

“Done,” France says promptly, sealing the deal. They step back from one another, and Ireland tosses him the key.

“How do ye have the keys to England’s study?” Ireland asks curiously, heading around to the passenger’s side.

“What do you want with them?” France counters, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Fair enough.” Ireland props her feet up onto the dashboard. “You know, ye’re not exactly known for stellar driving, either.”

France grins as he adjusts his sunglasses. “True. But I at least acknowledge the existence of the rules of the road.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Fair enough.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN/Historical Tidbits:  
> -Title from the saying, “Anyone driving slower than you is an idiot; anyone going faster than you is a maniac.”  
> -Inspiration comes from the fact that driving in Ireland and France is full of…adventure, to put it one way. (Confirmed for Ireland from personal experience. The Ring of Kerry was terrifying. But beautiful to look at! :) )  
> -And no, I don’t know why Ireland wants the keys to England’s study or how France got them. It’s a mystery.


	3. involved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denmark really had it coming...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, and I make no profit from this story. It is for enjoyment purposes only.  
> Summary: A series of non-linear drabbles focusing on Ireland throughout history.   
> Overall Series Note/Disclaimer: Although this story takes much of its inspiration from history and interesting facts that spark my imagination, it is not meant to represent the actual country, its people, or their history. It is not meant to cause offense to anybody.  
> {{ p.s. I write (and publish here) to become better at writing in general. Though every favorite/follow/kudo is sincerely appreciated (cookies for you all!) reviews/constructive criticism are even better! Thank you very much. }}

**involved**

“Ye do realize that Norway was actually the one who led all of the Vikings over here first, right?” Scotland asks as they sit down on the hill. “Denmark came later.”

Ireland considers this. “Nope, I’m pretty sure it was all Denmark.”

The Nation in question wanders by, presumably in search of his fellow Nordics. An axe is slung casually over his shoulder. Ireland watches him go past with narrowed eyes. The impromptu picnic they’re currently at has most of the Nations there; the air conditioning was malfunctioning in the building they were meeting at, blasting out hot air instead of cold, and the Nations broke out because nobody could stand it anymore. The Italy brothers and Spain are cooking (England was forbidden to cook, because of hazardous health reasons. Currently, he was by himself sulking, though he wouldn’t be alone for long. France was heading in his direction with a mischievous gleam in his eye)

Ireland gets up all of a sudden and throws Scotland a cheery smile. “Be right back!”

Scotland eyes her warily. “Well, dinna kill him _too_ much.”

Ireland affects an innocent look. “Why, brother, whatever could ye mean by such a remark?”

Scotland only ‘hmphs’ and turns back to his meal.

His sister bounces over to the wild-haired Nordic. “Hey, Denmark…”

Scotland ignores the chaos that follows as Ireland chases Denmark down the hill brandishing her sword; he’s learned over the centuries that it’s best to not get involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN/Historical Tidbits:  
> So apparently even though Norwegians were actually the first Vikings to attack Ireland, and the Danes came a lot later, Irish monks who recorded the events mostly said all of the Vikings were from Denmark...leading to my headcanon that Ireland basically blames Denmark for any and all Viking activity, and not Norway...or she thinks Denmark and Norway are the same...or constantly confuses the two of them. Either way, it leads to this drabble!

**Author's Note:**

> AN/Historical Tidbits:  
> -Title from The Vodka Song, by Seamus Moore. The lack of punctuation with ‘like a vodka boy’ is intentional, as it is a subtle reference to Russia.  
> -This takes place sometime after/around 1871, which is when Prussia declared the German Empire/The Second Reich (this is why Prussia is so excited to show off Germany to everybody).  
> -At this time in Ireland, about 70 years before, it had been united with the Kingdom of Great Britain to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland (although it had been under England’s control/influence for a while before that).  
> -A few years before that, the First French Republic had tried to invade Ireland to assist in a rebellion against the English (and possible begin an invasion of Britain); historically France and Ireland have a close relationship and were often allies (especially against Britain).  
> -Historically Spain and Ireland have also had a close relationship; in fact the Irish origin myth has the ancestors of the Irish (the Milesians) originating from Spain. At certain points in history, Irish people in Spain were treated like Spanish citizens.  
> -There’s no historical basis for Ireland recognizing Prussia…sorry. :)  
> -Back in the late eighth century to the late tenth century, the Vikings (mostly from Norway and Denmark) carried out a series of coastal raids and battles against Ireland. The places where Viking ports were established eventually became the first major towns in Ireland (ex. Dublin, Wexford, Cork, etc.)  
> -There were a lot of people who thought that Ireland was uncivilized (for a variety of reasons, but it led to them being treated as second class, basically).  
> -Ireland’s whole speech about bringing civilization back to Europe is basically because after the fall of the Roman Empire, Irish monks copied out a lot of ancient writings of all sorts, and later went out and brought these writings and their learning to Europe (reaching as far as Italy, Switzerland, and a whole bunch of other countries). For more information, read Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization. It’s very good.  
> -Ireland has throughout history been given many personifications: from Ériu in ancient times, to Kathleen/Cathleen Ni Houlihan more recently. I have chosen to use this name as Ireland’s human name, with occasional references to her older name (Ériu) and the name for Ireland in Irish, Éire. My headcanon is that she would hate being given the name Kirkland because it’s, a) not hers, and b) because it takes away her Irish surname in favor of an English one (taking away her language).  
> -Like it says in the story, an Rúis means Russia in Irish (It literally means ‘the Russia’, because an means ‘the’).  
> -Irish, if it wasn’t legally banned in Ireland by the English, was at least heavily discouraged, to the point where today, more people in Ireland speak English than Irish, and it appears to be a dying language (hopefully not!)  
> -Ah, yes, Russia…honestly their interaction was the whole reason I wrote this. I was inspired by the fact that Russia was the first country to recognize Ireland’s independence in 1918. This was just supposed to be really really short…and then it got really really long.  
> -Russian translations: Da = yes; vodka apparently does mean little water in Russian (I think?).  
> -Irish translations: Sasana = England; Dúnmharfóir = murderer  
> -So apparently the Angles and the Saxons (who would become the Anglo-Saxons) pushed the Celts/Britons farther and farther out of Britain, which in Hetalia would mean that Britain kind of inadvertently killed his mom?...or at least that’s my headcanon.  
> -Alistair is Scotland.


End file.
